


Crash

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Powder Keg series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Sleaze, Bad Dirty Talk, Cunnilingus, Curses, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gags, Humour, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Control, Lust, Lust Potion/Spell, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader doing her darnedest to keep it together, Sam saving the day, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Smut Appreciation Day, Tumblr, Vaginal Fingering, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A witch throws a  Lust curse at you and you convince Sam to help you out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaryDove_ofUtah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDove_ofUtah/gifts).



“Good morning,” You smile at the woman across the counter.  It’s a cluttered little shop, full of standard witchy paraphernalia, lots of velvet and purple and pewter - _too twee to be twue,_ you think.  

She beams back, her fluffy blonde hair resting on her shoulders.  She wears enough jewellery to tinkle when she smiles.

“Good morning!” she peeps.  “What can I help you with today?  Are you gift shopping?”

“No, I’m afraid I’d like to ask you a few questions,” you say and pull out your FBI badge.  Her face scrunches into a frown and she leans forward a few inches, peering at the ID.  You put it away briskly, before she can spot the forgery and say, “It’s about the death of-”

 _Huk!_ is the sound she makes as she drops and dashes sideways.

“Hey! I just wanna-”

She ducks out a curtain and you fumble around the counter to get through too -  “I just got-” - then stumble through into a spacious, orderly storage room packed with some serious hoodoo, but no store keeper.  “Ohshit,” you breathe, reaching into the back of your skirt for your gun and starting to walk carefully. “Hey, I only wanna talk,” you announce and sidle up to the opposite door.  “Ma’am?”

You stop still, nudging the door open “Ma'am?”

She yanks it wide and blows red dust into your face, catching you on the end of an inhale and prompting some sort of Pomeranian _anph!nph!_ thing from you. She grandly booms an incantation as you cough and try to keep your weapon up.

“What the fuck was that?” you gasp, blinking hard, trying to reset your vision.

“You will forget you ever met meeee,” she proclaims in a breathy tenor, ghosting a hand over your general area.

“Don’t count on it woman.”  You can see enough to grab her shirt, ignoring the Christmassy jingle, growling “What the fuck did you do to me?” You frown at her, still blinking, but move your gun with intent.

“Why aren’t you-?” The woman holds up the bottle and reads the label. “Oh pooh! I wanted Mastery!”

“Hey!” you shove her, hard enough to give her a fright. “Tell me whaahhhh…” You feel your chest lighten. There’s an overwhelming urge to let it lift, up towards the ceiling, and just fall backwards onto a bed. But there is no bed behind you so you pull on her to stay put. “What the fuck..?”

“It’s Lust,” she says sadly. “You’re going to lust the owner of the next voice your hear. Besides mine, obviously.”

“What?”

“For about a day,” she nods. “Depending.”

“Ugh my god,” you stumble back and try to think of what to do, landing on a stool opposite her.  She grips the shelving behind her, watching the barrel of your gun bob up and down, and she hesitates to move.  You’re incapacitated with sensation, feeling like you can’t breathe out, like you’re in water, suspended. You drop your aim and engage the safety.

“Okay so you want Gretel Ingram down on 5th?” The woman starts to shuffle sideways and back out to the shop. “She’s a loopy old cow.  Killed a dog last year.  And that’s a slippery slope, you know.” She gives you one last sad glance before she disappears through the curtain. “Just make sure you stay hydrated!”  Seconds later the front door slams closed.

You’re finding it hard to breathe quietly, and grab at your stomach to steady yourself. Fumbling for your phone you pull up your few favourites and in moments a voicemail cuts through the cloud “Hi this is Sam Winchester-”

“Uuuuuuuhsonofabitch.” Something like warm molasses pours itself down your neck and slides over your shoulders, right over your breasts and sweeps south. Your breath edges in, in, in, in as the heavy sweetness sweeps down your body and the stool seems to teeter beneath you.  As the sensation kicks out the soles of your feet your other arm swings out, swimming for some steadying object.

Then a clarity takes you, like a sucking gravity, and you centre in on his voice. The beep sounds and even though you can feel your skin again, you say nothing. Quickly, you hang up and redial, rubbing your hand on your thigh with the gun still in your grasp.

This time when the message starts, you try to think of what to say, of whether you should stay or go back to the bunker but considering how you can’t even begin to tackle that, you’re clearly not fit for the job.  You clear your throat and put all your mental capacity towards talking normally.

“Sam. Ba- Hi… [clears throat]  I’m not feeling well, kinda burning up here… uh yeah I’m too hot.  This stupid son of a bitch didn’t do it.  She… gave me a name.  Ssso I’m gonna go ahead and come back to the bunker.  Maybe yyyyyou can finish the job. Or tag Dean.  Okay.  Drive safe.”

Well that went way better than you’d hoped.  

You head straight for your car, jaw loose, sultry gaze heavy on all you see.  You feel like a skulking lion and even though Sam’s 40 minutes away, you still scan your surrounds for his form.  

You can drive well enough but you’re careful, taking a half second longer with your decisions, and when you get back to the motel you thank god for never really unpacking.  One of Sam’s shirts - the one you use to sleep in - is sitting on top, ready for bed.  You dash to the bathroom to grab your small bag and chuck it under the shirt before you sling the whole lot over your shoulder.  As you close your door a guy from a neighbouring room walks past.

‘Hey mama, looking good,” he nods.

“Yeah you like that?” you jeer.  You start to follow him saying “You do yeah? Uhuh -” His steps get a bit quicker and he scoots ahead, chest first. “- Goddamn right I’m hot. Yeah yeah, it’s good, yeah that’s right okay you’re not Sam holy fuck balls” and curve your path back to the car.  Somewhere in that he spied your knife in the holster and wide-eyed it outta there so, thankfully, you don’t have to find out what was going to happen next. You glare at yourself, grabbing the door frame and think you are going to have to try a shitload harder to blend in.

You’re slowly realising that the curse hasn’t yet taken full effect.  Getting back to the bunker is going to take longer than usual.  You’re keeping it at least 5 miles under the speed limit because you’re not confident your eyes are actually taking everything in. Your visual cortex seems occupied with images of Sam - his hands, long legs, moving contours, shadows, those foxy eyes he gets when he’s planning.  In fact, this may be the most dangerous thing you’ve done in weeks.  But you haven’t got much choice: you’re not sure you should be around another person right now, let alone a man, so getting home is up to you.  And in all that, you couldn’t even guess how many miles have gone by just now.   _Jesus take the wheel._

With the freeway exit in your sights, you see a flash of blue-red-white in your rear-view mirror.  You don’t know how long that’s been there.  You taste metal and feel queasy all at once.  This could be all flavours of awful.

The cop car calls _wee-ooooooo_ and you do your best to pull over in a totally sober and lucid fashion, even as your palms slip sweaty and you hear yourself muttering _shit shit shitshit fuckity fuck fuck,_ and lower your window.

“License and registration ma’am,” he says.  You lean over, stab the glove compartment open - _God too violent!_ \- and pass it to him without looking - _be friendly!_ Your brain is running so fast and so close to panic that you can’t actually measure seconds well enough to check your pulse and calm down.

“Could you uh, remove your scarf thing there?”

You look down and see Sam’s borrowed sleep shirt wrapped around your neck, and take a couple of agitated goes to yank it off.  You look up at him and try to smile.  He nods a quick smile back and writes his notes.  Your gaze slides down to his holster, belt, the slim form of his waist, then gets stuck on the way the fabric creases where it pulls on his shapes.  A shape. Your tongue itches around behind your lower teeth…

“Ma’am do you have a reason for going 10 miles below the speed limit?”

The man bends down and leans his forearms on your window frame.  He’s broadly built, leaner than Sam, and height doesn’t matter when he’s eye level and wafting some masculine musk of authority into the cabin. You’re almost licking your own breath…

“I’m just,” you swallow.  “I got some bad news today and I’m … headed home.”

“Oh really?  Bad news?  That’s a shame,” he says kindly.

“Yeah, real bad.  I’m just taking it real careful officer.”

He peers at you a bit and you wonder if you look drug addled.  “It’s strange.  The whole thing has made me feel really tired,” you say solemnly.

He nods thoughtfully.  “You know, if you were going 10 along the curb, it’d be safer than this.  You need to either pick it up or get off the main road.”

“Yes sir.” _Ohsh-shit._  You punch out a little _Mmm_ then dimple your cheeks and look at the horizon in an effort to keep it cool.

He pauses and takes a good hard look at you.  That’s the moment when you remember you’re wearing two weapons and a fake FBI ID. A dampness blooms in your armpits and between your breasts. You squeeze a little chin-wrinkled smile at his stare, hoping you look meek and sad.

“How far you got to go?”

“I can see it from here,” you answer, nodding seriously.

“Right, well you get yourself there quick smart,” he orders.  “You hear me?”

“Yy-” you clear your throat, “Yes sssir.”  

“Alright, safe travels ma’am.  Hope your day improves,” he says and hands back your documents.

“Thank. You. Sir,” you manage and grip the wheel until he’s back in his vehicle and pulled out before thudding your forehead on the steering wheel.

When the police car slips out of sight, you turn on the hazard lights and trundle home, 20 miles an hour and half on the kerb.

Meanwhile, back at the homestead, Sam sees his phone has a message from you.  He taps it open and puts the phone to his ear.

“Sam. Ba- Hhi… [throat clearing] I’m not feeling well.  Kinda burning up. [heavy breathing] Uuuh yeah you are so hot.  You sexy son of a bitch mmmdo it…  Sam, huuuh… love y’name.  [swallowing, whispered _Shit_ ] …So I’m gonna go ahead and come back to the bunker.. Maybe yyyyou can finish me off.  Or tag Dean.  Okay.  Drive safe.”

“What is wrong with you?” Dean asks.

“Uh.  I just got the strangest message from Y/N,” he says, looking at his phone to check the source.  “I think… I _think_ something’s wrong.”

“What’d she say?”

“Says she’s sick,” he looks at Dean, “and that she was coming back but that was a while ago, she should be here already.  She sounds weird.”

Sam goes to call you back but the bunker door slams and mercifully it’s Dean who calls out “Y/N, that you?  You okay?”

You concentrate on taking a breath deep, then controlling what you do with it.  “Yeah!” you call out.   _Good work._

You walk to the platform, feeling different all over, rubbing your palms over the flanks of your waist and down your hips, altogether itchy under your skin.  Your shoes hit each step with steady purpose and you drag your hand down the rail, not seeing anything until your eyes land on Sam.  He’s sitting on the other side of the library table, concentrating on his screen, clacking away.  Your breathing starts to pull in and you push your chest forward, and then he chucks a pen in his mouth, teeth bared to chomp on it and you drop your jaw for an involuntary _fuck_.  

At the bottom of the stairs you grip the rail and run a path along the ground with your eyes, drawing an imaginary line to guide yourself by the map table, through the library and safely past the boys.

You push off and stride, purposeful and focused.  All of you coils with restless tension.  Your heel strike is harsh, your gait cat-like and you look for all the world like you’re modelling down a runway.

As you approach the table, Sam sees you coming and notices that you’re walking with your eyes almost closed.

He takes the pen from his mouth, asking “Y/N, you okay?”

“Don’t talk to me,” you say, and keep on your mission.  Your voice is almost gravelly and Sam shifts in his seat as he watches you saunter out of the room.  “I’m okay,” you murmur.  “Just need a minute. I’m good.”

They squint at each other and Dean asks “ _Is_ she okay? She looks like she’s chewing a caramel with her ass.”

Sam shrugs his whole body.  He wants to go see if you’re alright, but doesn’t want Dean to stir him about his concern for you.  He’s played your message four times already.

It takes 10 minutes for you to type a text that’s what you _should_ say and then proofread it enough to hit send.

 **Y/N:** Sorry I didn’t talk before.  I’m not well.  The witch hit me with a curse.  I need some food and water.  The witch you want is Gretel Ingram on 5th.  She killed a dog first.

“What the hell?” Sam mutters, sitting up to read your message.

“What?” Dean leans over, trying to see.  “She texting you now?”

“Yeah, she got hit by a curse.  Lookup Gretel Ingram.”  

He types in a reply

 **Sam** : What kind of curse?

 **Y/N:** Rather not say.  Just makes me act a bit funny.

Sam twitches a frown at his phone, wondering what would make you so uncharacteristically private with him.

“Gretel Ingram,” Dean reports. “Questioned over the death of a dog.  Report was inconclusive…. Damn, she looks witchy.  It _was_ the vic’s dog… What kind of curse?”

“Wouldn’t say,” Sam mutters thoughtfully. “Sounds like she wants to look after it herself.  Mustn’t be that bad.”  He doesn’t like you going through something alone, and he’s tempted to ambush you in your room.

“Okay, well, I suppose there’ll still be time to go back today,” Dean says.  “I gotta get some supplies.”

“Let me get some food together for Y/N-”

“Me too?” Dean asks hopefully.

“Ugh, are your arms painted on or something,” Sam groans, but he makes food for Dean while Dean delivers yours.

Soon you can hear boots coming down the corridor.

Dean drops off a bottle of water, an apple and a sandwich and knocks on your door calling “You okay in there Y/N?”  You exhale upon the sound of his voice, so relieved that you don’t have to deal with Sam’s timbre willowing it’s way through the keyhole and into your ears.

“Yep!” you say lightly, “just gotta wait it out.”

“What is it? Can I come in?”

“NO!” You shout, bursting off the bed. “I’m fine. It’s uh-” You grab your head as you see stars from your outburst. “It’s a behaviour one. Just wanna be alone.”

“How’d she do it?”

You talk with your hand over your eyes. “Uh, red powder, incantation. And the incantation woulda worked for another powder too. Smelled like… mint and coffee. Lasts a day.”

“Okeydokey.  Well, I’ll be going soon as we figure out this Gretel witch. Sam’s here if you need him - he’s looking into an antidote.”

 _Sam. God, a deep voice saying Sam_. You bend over and lean on your knees a moment. “Well. There’s- there’s no.. real.. physical… side effects.”

“Good to hear. Good luck.”

You guzzle the water and devour the food, leaving just a thin apple core on the plate.  

Keeping still begins to be a challenge and you think maybe you can burn off the jitters with some exercise.  You get through a few dozen push ups, even though you’re imagining Sam beneath you.  Sit-ups prove to be a terrible idea - just two of them have your floor muscles galloping. You have to roll onto your tummy and start singing _I’m a Little Teapot_ to redirect your thoughts, but at “when I get all steamed up” you’re up off the carpet and bouncing, shaking out your hands.

Another 30 minutes of pacing and singing other nursery rhymes in an embarrassingly sexy voice, you’ve had enough.  You need something, but don’t know what.  Other than Sam.

 **Y/N:** Hi, So what’s next?

 **Sam** : Just sit tight. We’ll figure something out

 **Y/N** : It’s really hard to just pace the floor in here. Can you give me something to do in the meantime?

 **Sam** : Dean’s still prepping for Gretel. I’m on your curse. Research all covered, just rest.  

 **Y/N** : Can’t rest! Need to be occupied.

 **Sam** : Do you want to use the gym or something?

 **Y/N** : Curse makes exercise bit tricky. I need to be occupied.

 **Sam** : Yeah you said. Just do some star jumps.

 **Y/N** : Omg god you jerk you have no idea how impossible that is right now. I don’t nedd suggestions I need isntrwction. Tell me wha it should do.

He calls you out of frustration and you answer with a tight “Sam.”  

“Hey, Y/N, look, you said you’re okay. Are you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Good. I know it’s hard but seriously just sit there and try to rest!”

“Oh god your voice is ridiculous,” you gush, taken aback by how sultry you sound, all breathy and wrecked.

“What?” he sounds pissed off.  “Do you want to talk to Dean instead?”

“No! God please no, just… You want me to just sit here?”

“Yeah,” he says.  You can hear the shrug.

“Where?”  

“Uh, on your bed?”

“How?” God, you sound desperate.

“Shit, I dunno Y/N how do you sit? Do you cross your legs?”

“Y-hes.” You cross them and squeeze… and whimper.

“Are you really alright?” he asks.  His concern is renewed and he gets out of his chair to pace while he talks, his tone growing urgent. “Does anything hurt at all?”

“Almost…,” you breathe.  You’re rocking yourself, hooking your crossed leg around the back of your ankle and working nerves against the tightness of your thigh fat and tendons. “Okay Sam, I’m sitting here with my legs crossed; tell me what else.”

And then he’s back to annoyed with your apparently pointless questions.  “Holy shit Y/N I don’t know. Dean and I are working as fast as we can. Your job is to stay there, sit tight and _wait._ Okay? You wait for me.”

You whimper “ _Aaaa_ haha,” and bite your lip to contain your breath, which doesn’t really work.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Nothing, Sam,” you voice is so high.  “I’m okay.”

Sam walks out of the library to get some sort of privacy. “You sure? ‘Cause it didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Mmm,” is all you manage, trying to unwind yourself from around your groin.

“Y/N, what kind of curse is it?”

“It’s a lust curse,” you sigh, your breathing still settling.

“A lust curse,” he repeats back and thinks about your message, the way you came home.

“Yeah, Sam.”

“Shit.”  He thinks and tries to figure out how to manage this.  “Ok, alright, um… Do you- Uh shit, I can’t tell if you’re actually okay.”

“That’s why I picked you Sam. Knew you’d look after me. Kind and thoughtful.” You lay back on the bed and rub your thighs.

“Picked me?”

“Yeah, she said the next person I’d hear is the Lustee,” you explain, your voice almost back to a regular pitch. “I picked you.”

Sam thinks about how you called him, twice.  “Has it passed?” he asks. “Do you feel normal again?”

“Kind of.  She said ‘A day, depending’.”

“Depending on what?”

“Dunno.  Seriously Sam, it’s 24 hours and trying to get rid of it might be worse than just riding it out.  The way to help me is by telling me what to do. Otherwise I’m going to come out there and fuck you in front of your brother. You taking charge will manage the situation. I trust you.”

Sam clears his throat at your direct remarks. “We don’t know that acting on it won’t fuel the fire,” he says.

“I feel a bit better since I came,” you offer hopefully. It’s pretty much true.

He shakes his head a little to help ignore he just listened to you orgasm.  “Seriously, acting on a curse can reinforce it, and you don’t know which act-”

“Yeah, see, I don’t care.  Right now, I’m looking at my fingers and guessing about how big your cock is. I want your bony hips inside my thighs.  I’d pull on your waist and get you in me Sam-”

“Maybe you shouldn’t share too much,” he says, using the heel of his hand to nudge what growing in his pants.

“Getting your fucking gorgeous hands on my body and having you doing it the way you want, your heat and hardness-”

“Y/N!!” Sam’s panting a little and you hear him take a few deep ones to calm.

“See… I don’t care if it makes things worse.”

“Yeah I can tell. S’pose that’s the curse part.”

“So you gonna help me Sam?”

“Of course I will, just I’m not sure if I should even see you right now,” he says rubbing his forehead.

“Well maybe your first step is to figure out if the spell will be made worse by you fucking my pussy into a swollen mess.  Fuck!” _The shit that is coming out of my mouth!!_

“Jesus Y/N… Yeah,” he says quietly. ”I’m less worried about the spell, more our friendship.”

You put your hand over your eyes and try to think, try so hard to use your sober brain and just talk to him like it’s a 3am deep-and-meaningful and Dean’s snoring nearby, but the curse feels like that part of you is gagged and bound in the background.  The curse makes you squirm with truth.  “I never wanted to be just friends with you anyway.” _God damn me if he doesn’t feel the same way_.

“…Right.”  His voice sounds different.

“So what do I do till whatever’s next?” you ask, your husky voice laced with regret.

Sam clears his throat.  

“C'mon Sam. Break my heart tomorrow just… Take control. Of me.  Please…”

Then, from down the phone, a clear, firm voice gently tells you exactly what to do. “Take off your shoes, get under the covers and count until I call or text you back.”

You breathe out through your nose and grab your stomach again. “Count? That’s going to occupy me?”

“By seventeens.”

“Ugh. So mean. I love it,” you moan, running your hand between your legs and curling your knees up.

“And, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

“On myself?”

“No, I mean don’t touch yourself. This is a 24hr thing you’ve got over 20hrs to go. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“See Sam?” you smile. “You’re a natural at this.  Knew I called the right man.  I’m gonna need some more water soon.”

“Let me know when you do.  Call me if you need,” he instructs. “I’m right here.”

“Mmmmm. Thank you,” you sigh and finish the call. Your shoes hit the floor and you’re under the covers in no time. “17, 34, 51, 68…”

Finding out that Gretel Ingram is part of a larger coven eats up some time, plus Sam wants to double check the risks of your curse.  Dean is close to being ready to leave on his own.

So, _sometime later_ , your patience is exhausted and you text Sam again.

 **Y/N** : just hit 9690.

 **Sam** : Wow. Okay, what’s that got to do with anything?

 **Y/N** : Nothing SAM IT HAS TO DO WITH SEX. Nine 69 o-yeah

It takes a little while but “Working as fast as I can. Be there soon” appears on your screen.

 **Y/N** : got pipe, slippers and BJ waiting dear

_9707…  9724… 9741…_

**Sam** : lol sounds good honey

In the midst of it all, you smile at your phone. You have such a gorgeous relationship with him - easy, supportive, quietly flirtatious.  You’ve shared secret jokes and even recovered from disagreements.  For a few minutes you stop counting and imagine everything changing between you and Sam, pretending that you can get past this with your pride and his respect and maybe have something afterwards.  Maybe something better.

When Sam sees your call come through he hesitates to answer.

“Hey,” he greets. “How you hangin’?”

There’s silence, long enough for him to sit forward and say “Y/N?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Just getting used to your voice again.”  Behind all your advanced mathing, you think maybe Sam might need a little more convincing to help you out. You’re hoping you can think well enough to try _gentle_ flirting, help him feel wanted. You sit on the edge of the bed while you talk.

“Sam, you know how you said you'd… look after me?”

“Y/N… I’m not sure that… How are you, really?” he deflects.

You close your eyes and try again to look for the part that’s just you, the part Sam knows best, and clear your throat. “I’m a bit shaky. I can’t seem to take a breath all the way in, or I can but it just works me up… I keep thinking What would Sam tell me to do. It’s like a cross over point between looking after myself like you’d want me to and what this fucking curse makes me really want to do.  I just want to hear you tell me things.  And feel skin.  And your voice… It’s like it’s attached to… parts.” You blow out a steady breath.

Sam’s listening closely, his elbows on his knees. “Okay,” he says, suddenly conscious of not talking too much. “We’re almost done here.”

“I feel like I’m going to vibrate to pieces.  Are you going to actually come and help me?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “‘If you want.  If you think it’ll help.”

“God don’t sound too enthusiastic,” you mutter. Sam can hear you shifting around as you slide onto the floor.  You kneel, sitting on your feet and rub your thigh rhythmically.

“Well, what if doing something like that-”

“Holy shit Sam I’m about to put a condom on a chair leg just to get something in me-”

Sam sits up straight and realises Dean can hear the conversation, because his eyebrows sit up straight too. “Are you fucking serious?  Don’t do anything stupid-”

You lose control of your focus and snap at his reaction.  “Don’t be an asshole! Get in here and fuck me!” You suck on your teeth in surprise.

The sound of Sam’s chair pushing back is sharp in your ear.  He gets himself in the war room to talk to you.

“Hey! Calm the hell down,” he snaps back, making you writhe in your place and lean on your spare hand. “That’s the curse talking. And I don’t want to start with you like this. It’s, it's…”

“Oh. Fuck,” you whine and lean over to thud your forehead on the floor, trying to concentrate. “Sam. When she said I’d lust after the next voice I’d hear I thought of you. I didn’t call Dean, didn’t play an Elvis song. You. I called you for a reason and it’s not just ‘cause you’re a nice guy… I think of you.”

You’re met with silence as Sam runs his fingers through his hair. “Sam?”

“I’ve thought of you too.”

“Oh thank fuck,” you moan, rocking back and forth.  “You want me to tell you about it?”

“What do you mean?” he asks and you can just imagine that adorable concern on him.

“I mean I’ve just about spent the last penny of my self-control and you may as well profit.”

“If you think it’ll help,” he says, glancing back at Dean to check he can’t hear.

“Okay, I might get a bit dirty. For me anyway,” you groan.

He laughs a “That’s okay” back.

“You on point is the hottest thing ever,” you start. “Following you into dangerous places and watching your broad shoulders, you holding whatever fuck off weapon you’ve got going on, your forearms and set jaw, shit I have to get stony to focus sometimes. You cut a fucking hot silhouette, Sam.” You rock back and forth again. “Uh God I love saying your name.”

“I like saying your name too,” he shares, then thinks to add, “And I like the way you say mine… What else?”

You smile a little, relieved he seems to be a bit on board. So you barrel on and let fly.  “You remember the knot practise we did? How you let me tie your wrists so I could see how you got out? I didn’t need that fourth time. Shit, you’re such a good teacher.”  You rock back to sit on your feet and run your palm up and down inside your thighs, squeeze the cushy rise of your hips, trying to scratch at sex-itchy bones.  “I spent that last time seeing if I could keep off your lap and out of your face, fucking counted the seconds down watching you focus and god… _struggle_ … hmmm wondering how I could distract you, with my tongue, my lips. Make you swear and pull on the bindings.”

You’ve got your hand back on the floor now, knees splayed as you gently scoop your pelvis at nothing.  Sam’s finding himself strung out on your voice now too. It’s low and tempting, like it should be warm against his skin and not tinny through his phone.  You go on: “For the next week I fell asleep with my wrists crossed and above my head. Bed’s got a solid squeak now from pulling on the headboard while I think of your face getting wet.”

Dean pops out a _fuck_ and Sam whips around to see him staring back, his face sorry-not-sorry.

“Sam, I’m on my hands and knees here. And this chair’s got really sexy legs… Help me?”

Dean collects his things and gets up to go.  “Jesus Christ, Sam. Help the poor lady.”

Sam eyes come back to focus and he snaps his jaw shut. “I’m bringing you something to drink.”

Forty goddamn years later (rough estimate) there’s a neat knock at the door.  You don’t bother raising your voice to tell him it’s open, not that you really can.

Sam comes around to your side of the bed and crouches down.  You’ve got your arms wrapped around your knees, pretty much containing yourself until you know that whatever you do next is safe.  You feel ready to spring onto him and watching him descend down, careful and concerned, v-neck t-shirt and track pants… You’re salivating with tension and want but you have no idea what you’ll do to him if you let go.

“You wanna stand up?” he asks.

You shake your head tightly.

You hold on and look at him, sharing some seconds of silent conversation.  His expression flickers, moments of apology, kindness and desire go by, and you pray he sees how hopeful and dependent you are right now.  He gives a minute nod and says “Drink this.”

When he holds the bottle out for you, you push your knees straight, take the bottle with both hands and bring it to your mouth, using deliberate actions to control yourself.  Your shake is bad enough that, after your first sip Sam takes the bottle back, avoiding your fingers.  You hug your waist and let him feed it to you, your eyes stuck on his lips while you do.  He watches you closely, very closely, and reminds himself that he’s responsible for you right now.

“Stand up,” he says, almost a request, and you do, even though you’re moving like your ankles are tied.  You’re fighting your own body and mind and the line between the curse and what you truly want is getting very blurry.

“Sam, hhhave you done anything like this before?” you ask, glancing up at him.  Your voice sounds like you did two sets of drunk karaoke last night.

“A little,” he says and carefully puts his hands high on your arms.  You lean towards him in response.

“Did you ever think of doing those things with me?”

“Yes.  And before the knot session too,” he says, looking down at you.  “I wish we could’ve taken it slower though, with some planning and conversation… Maybe a date.”

“Hmm,” you chew on your lips and lean further, letting your forehead rest on his chest.  You hum again - much, much higher - because you’d completely forgotten about his smell.  Few things help you calm as quickly as that fragrance and you hope it’ll work some magic on you now.  As you breathe in, your hands rise up and get a fist full of whatever they find, helping you step forward and press yourself against him.  This time it does not calm you down.

He lets you move against him, placing his hands onto your back while you smear your body on his.  He keeps relatively still, taking some time to watch how you’re going and not work you up any more than necessary, but it isn’t easy.  He does allow himself to nuzzle your head, getting a lungful of your familiar scent too, and the feeling of him filling his chest makes you clutch at him, then wrap your arms around him too and pull.

You tilt your head back and you look up, finding him already there, an inch from you.  And watching.  “I wish it were different too,” you whisper, because you recognise the feeling those eyes spark in you, the way you’d hold your breath sometimes just to keep yourself from laughing because he’s right there in arm’s reach, or better still, laughing first.  Those times when he looks over to see what you’re feeling, where you’re at, how you are, and how you seem to lose a second every time he does.  

But to properly recall that feeling right now, you’d have to push past your imagination filtering his whole face through Fuck Me goggles.  So, best you can tell, he’s looking at you with calculation and want, and enjoying every element of you needing him, allowing him, to do this with you.

He lets his head tip down so his lips touch yours.  He closes his eyes and you do too, begging your body to just let you have this moment, the moment Sam first kisses you.  You suck in a shaky breath and try to keep quiet, try to let him kiss you and not devour him head first.  But your lips still move too fast, your body leans, hands snatch, tongue reaching over your teeth, and he takes your head in his hands, gently and firmly tilting you so you don’t have to decide.  The heat of his palms over your ears and jaw, and his tipping tongue touching your lips makes you claw at his back and whimper.

He reaches behind himself and collects your wrists, bringing them back between you as he finishes the kiss.  He almost has to stand to his full height, just to escape your tippy-toe reach.

He takes half a breath and murmurs “Get on the bed.”  His voice sounds deliberate.  It feels firmer. Found.

Maybe that look wasn’t your imagination.

You turn and move, get your rigid limbs to crawl to the centre as he adds “Lay on our back, head on the pillows.”  So you do.

He moves so slowly it’s almost predatory.  You haven’t yet changed from your FBI gear, but your shirt has untucked itself from your skirt.  You inch your knees up and down, rubbing them together while you work fists by your side.

Sam crawls up the bed and lays beside you, his hips beside your legs and his propping elbow by your shoulder.  Slowly he pushes your skirt up, only fingertips touching you, and pauses when he reaches the lace of your stockings.

“Since when did you wear stockings and suspender belts?” he asks.

“Since always,” you rasp.  “The only purpose skirts have are to make for easy fucking.  I’m not putting panythose in the way of that.”

Sam pauses, blinking.  “What would you have said yesterday?”

You close your eyes and swallow the dryness away.  “They’re pretty.”

“Okay, so I’m gonna-”

“Sam, it’s so hard to control everything.  Just, before I slip off the map altogether, thank you.  You’re being so considerate and careful.  I really appreciate it-”

“That’s okay.  Y/N, I really-”

“But I’ll totally understand if you kinda get on board at some stage and end up with my ankles around your ears and your hand over my mouth so Dean can’t hear me moan your goddamn name while you fuck my throat the long way-”

“Shhh-shh-shh,” Sam interrupts gently, “okay hush, stop talking.”

“-ugh, _Christ_ ,” you gasp, almost breaking a nail with the handful of comforter that’s keeping you grounded.

“That didn’t last long,” he says.

“Mmm, Sam I need you to make me come.  Just a little relief, please, please-please-”

“You have a preference?” 

 _Bless that steady, gorgeous face._   “Your mouth.  Get those gorgeous lips on my pussy Sam. Suck the breath out of-”

“Okay, no more talking unless I ask a question,” he says firmly.  “I need to last too…”

Sam’s all business now, sitting up so he can use both hands to undo the side zip and slide your skirt down, then making short work of removing your panties.  “Damn, those deserve more time,” he laments.  “So hot.”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze darkening considerably and you feel your pulse push past its racing speed and thump through you.

He looks up, pulses his jaw and says “Open.”

When you get your legs to move, he lays down, his ribs leaning on your inner thigh and his elbow by your waist.  You splay your fingers over your thighs and press in an effort to busy them.  He runs his fingers over your skin, ducking a few under the suspender elastic, watching his hand on you.  When he drags his knuckles up the inside of your leg, edging towards the warm crux below him, you press your fingers and drag, scratching yourself.  Sam hears the stockings tear a little, even over your moan, and stops.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he says.

“Mm? It’s okay, I didn’t notice.”  

“You gotta calm down, Y/N.”

“I am calm-”

“No you’re not,” he tells you.

“Sam, _this is as calm as I can do!”_

He gets off the bed with such speed you flinch.  In your bottom drawer he finds a long scarf, and returns to kneel one knee on the bed.  

“Give me your hands.”  The words are so firm you don’t even try to think, you just do and a part of you is thankful something finally feels easy.  You watch Sam tie your wrists together and hook them up to the headboard, your knees coming back to comfort each other.  “Are you comfortable?” he checks.

“Yes,” you answer instantly.

“Okay, your last orgasm was over an hour ago, and we’re gonna do another now, and then you’re gonna rest,” he tells you.  He moves over you again and you work your legs apart for him.  He lays back down, a little lower, and slides a forearm under your waist.

“Breathe in, Y/N, and out,” he says.  You let the weight of his words direct you, give over your very breath to him, and feel the rest of the room fade dark as you stare into his eyes.

His hand lands on your ribs, right below your breast.  It’s heavy and warm and _him_.  You work your arms against the retrains and settle your chatty muscles as best you can, concentrate on breathing evenly but when he starts moving it gets away on you again.  He watches his thumb brush under your breast, down the curves covered by your shirt.   _Covet_ you think, watching the way he looks at you.  His palm slips under your shirt and over the lace of your suspender belt - _covet_ \- then slides over the skin of your lower belly and inches down - _covetcovetcovet_ -

He sees you struggling to hold on, unaware of how the heat of his hand seems to be soaking through to your g-spot, igniting an orgasm from the inside.  “Y/N,” he urges firmly, all of him looking into your eyes, “Let me take care of you.”

You gasp and feel yourself flare, then whimper and tremble, biting your bottom lip to rein yourself in and breathe breathe breathe to pause your body.

“Did you just come?” he asks.

“Mm mm” you answer, shaking your head.

Sam looks over your flushing skin, your pussy’s softness and surrounds glistening with arousal, and rolls to centre himself over you.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone making you look at him.  “Are you lying to me?”

 _Ooshitshitfuck_.  “Lil’ bit.”

“Did you stop it?”

“Mm hmm.”

“God, you’re good.”

“Uuhgood for you, Sam,” you strain it through gritted teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs and seems to find some urgency.

He moves down, getting a shoulder under each thigh and resting a forearm over your hip so he can reach your shining lips.  As soon as you see what he’s doing you start a climbing hum on your exhales, trying to control yourself, but you don’t have a chance.  He pulls your lips apart, touches his tongue to your clitoris and firmly slides down, licking into your pussy as he flicks a fingertip over your clit again.

“Mmm!  Ah! AAAHA!” you cry, curling and buzzing, your legs shaking around him as you pull the scarf taut.  He plants his mouth over your clit, working a sucking kiss on you then thrusts two fingers into you while licking at your nub. You cry out again “FUUUaaah-ha!”

Sam talks over your gasping noises “All of it Y/N, make it count, that’s it, so good,” forcing your orgasm on and on and working himself against the mattress as you tremble around him.

When your moans stop pleading, he cups his hand over your softness and crawls up, pressing his lips to yours and mumbling “I gotcha, you’re okay, I gotcha Y/N.”

You reach for him with your lips, desperate and shaky.  When the panting finally recedes you feel calmness coming, all your limbs falling heavily against the bed and you start to kiss back, slack jawed and sweaty.

“Is that better?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” you sigh.  “Yeah, much better.  Oh god, Sam, thank you.”

“I barely touched you,” he smiles.

“Doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t want to go through this with anyone else.”

He leans on you and nuzzles into another kiss, letting a hand slide down your body to get under your shirt and up to your breast.  It feels sweet, warm and lovely. He caresses and waits for you a while.

“Mmmm, I can’t believe your suspender belt,” he says.

“Huh, it’s pretty awesome,” you admit.

“It’s fucking hot as all hell,” he says, kissing behind your ear and as he moves over you to kiss the other he says “Next time I’ll use the stockings to tie you up.”  

The look he gives you is a whole order of magnitude stronger than anything else and you feel yourself hitch tight again.  Everything was already so sensitive, for so long, and now starting to feel tender.  You’re wondering how much more you’ll have to take.

“Sam, do we have sleeping tablets?”

“Yeah, why?” he lifts his head.

“It’s not better,” you tell him.

He stops and thinks, watching you for a moment, how your pupils give again, how your pulse ramps up.  “Was the relief better than last time?”

“Much better, but shorter.”

“Do you feel like you could come again soon?” He brushes your hair with his fingers.

“Maybe… Fuck me Sam,” you say, surprising yourself with the low pitch of your voice.

“Is that the curse talking?”

“No.”

“Y/N, we’ve got a long time to get through,” he kind of smirks as he talks, more out of surprise than anything else, even as he sees you wind up again, squirming under him. “We can’t maintain this rate, this… frequency.  You have to figure out how to manage it,” he says firmly.

“Fuck me Sam.  Make me come on your cock and if it doesn’t work knock me out.” You’re starting to properly writhe, dragging your softness over his firm form then rutting enough to move him.  You rub your face against your arms and arching your back.  “Do all of it,” you tell him, “everything you want.”

Sam watches and thinks, weighing the possibilities, until you interrupt his thoughts.  “C’mon Sam, make me grateful.”

“I will be back in 2 minutes,” he tells you. Then leaves.

“Oh _what?!”_ your heads pops up from the bed and you yell at the door. “No! Sam! Please come back!! SAAM??…. _Shit!”_

Sam returns to find you doing your bestest “102… 119… 136… Uh shit153…”

“Hey, you doing ok?”

You talk with a clenched jaw. “Not really. It’s all twice as soon. God no wonder she looked so sorry for me… I’m gonna kill her… What’s that?”

“It’s a tranquillizer from the med room,” he replies.

“Fucking _what?!”_

Sam sits beside you, and tells you in his smoothest, firmest voice “Sleeping pills take a while, and we don’t know you won’t need a strong dose. This is safer - pound for pound. I’ll stay with you the whole time, okay?”

“Fuck me first?” you say hopefully.

“Yeah, we can do that,” he smiles. “How do you want to do that?”

Sam stands and pulls off his t-shirt, then works off his pants.

You stare at him and way back in the back of your sex mangled mind you’re so sad that you can’t touch, can’t get it together enough to tell him what you think. You hope that, from your gaping mouth and tilted eyebrows, he has an idea of your appreciation.

Turns out your curse is plenty articulate on this point. There’s actually a slight slurping sound before you speak.  “Fuck you’re gorgeous.  I want to suck your cock. Please, just slide it down my tongue-”

Sam puts his hand over your mouth as he climbs over your body. “That won’t make you come-” you nod your head _Yes it will,_ “-not like you need. We’re doing this my way.”

He reaches over for a condom, lube and a strip of fabric and you watch, panting through your teeth.  He takes a cloth and holds it to your lips saying “Open” before tying it behind your head in a single knot. “This is to make it easier for you to listen… And I suspect you’ll like it.”

“Nnnnn-hhnng,” you agree, thudding the pillow and squeaking  “Geethuth Crithe”.

He gets the condom on then lays over you again and you shift in response, wrapping your near-numb legs around him and whimpering at his weight on your groin. His fingers deftly undo your shirt and brush aside the fabric, and he sighs a huff out his nose as he looks at your lace-covered breast. Not only does the bra match the panties and suspender belt but he knows he needs to leave all that alone if you’re going to last.

He leans down further and you make some sort of sound because it’s his tummy against yours, that soft underbelly skin meeting for the first time, so intimate and hot. He hushes you again and tells you to breathe, kissing your cheek and grazing your hair with his thumb, wiping away the building sweat.

“You relaxed enough?” he checks. You nod and hope you are.

Sam lubes himself, rather than touch you more than necessary. He presses against your opening, watching you carefully, and pushes forward listening to your pleasure heavy whimpers. You clench your eyes shut and arch back, trying to reach for him with your hips and he’s the one who groans.

“Relax, Y/N, you need somewhere to go. You’re too tight,” he says, dropping his head to concentrate.

“Nnhnnghhh!” You try but nothing changes.  When you look above you, at the sight of Sam straining, muscles working across his arms and shoulders, hair fallen forward around his eyes as he focuses and feels, there’s not a hope you can do anything but stay in one piece. _Just fuck me loose,_ you think.

He finally bottoms out and pauses, swallowing his own grunts.

“Oh goh, ith hucking herhec Thang!” You say through the gag. You don’t care how much he understands. “Huck! Peathe! Nguh!”

Sam settles his elbows beside your shoulders, squaring himself over you, and kisses your forehead and eyes while he waits for you to stop. You bring it back to a shallow puff, open your eyes and close them again instantly - your entire vision is taut neck, shoulder muscles and collarbone and a close up of stubble, all tanned and starting to sheen. You’re eyes are going to come first.

“Don’t move,” he tells you. “We’re gonna do this until you’re done.”

You bite down on the gag. He starts, pulling back and pushing forward, dragging his pelvic bone over your clitoris in a rolling motion. You imagine how his ass looks working against you, the way his back muscles would bulk and give, those long fucking legs working so he can be close and feel you. You close your eyes and try not to fuck back while your attention is drawn to your core. The feeling starts like a low note, constant and loud, and you hitch towards him in response.

“Take it, Y/N, don’t run,” he puffs, but his words fuel more than dampen and you push your head back into the pillow. He puts a broad hand on your chest to still you, wanting to build a slow climb that will wring you out.  Your body doesn’t agree, though, and when he leans down to your ear and tells you “Don’t you fucking come till I say” your whole system ratchets tight and starts the orgasm without him. Sam gasps and trips his rhythm, then doubles up, swearing and fucking you through the tightness. It doesn’t ease off, and you feel strung, pulled down your spine as he races to meet your need and hold off his own.

“Wait, Y/N, hold it!” And you try try _try_ so hard to please him, your body bouncing against his. He sees the sweat on your brow, the jack-hammer shake in your hands. Then he notices a tear slide into your hairline.

He knows he can’t undo the scarf but he slips a finger into the gag, working it free and lays down to kiss you, his rhythm dropping from bam-bam-bam to a surging, heavy fuck. You’ve stopped making noise.

“Okay, Y/N.  Let go.  Come.” He demands it, letting you yelp into his mouth at the release and he swears into yours as your pussy tightens even more, yanking his orgasm right out of him. Your whole body surges with it, over and over.  He slips his fingers between you to brush your clitoris, coaxing “That’s it baby, all you can,” milking the last of it until your contractions finally, gradually, drop away.

Sam knows you’d wrap your arms around him if you could so he gets his hands around your head, his wide grasp warm and holding, fingers caressing, kissing you with everything he’s got. After a while, you try to pause and breathe, foreheads pressed.

Soon he lifts his head, wincing a little at your gently spasming core. “Y/N?” he says, but you seem to have passed out.

He cleans up, telling you what he’s doing as he goes in case you can hear him or feel him move.  When your wrists are untied, he rubs your shoulders and arms. He removes your suspender belt and ruined stockings (takes his time there), puts your panties back on, then settles in beside you, rolling you into your side to face him, and dozing there in wait.

Dinner and breakfast come and go before you even open your eyes, and when you do you’re looking at Sam’s thigh and forearm. He’s propped up against your bed head, on his laptop again, and you watch tendons and muscles ripple as he types quietly.

“So, can I look you in the eye,” you ask, tongue light and voice shredded.

Sam puts the laptop on the floor and slides down beside you, saying “Hey, how you feeling?” He lays a hand over your cheek.  You close your eyes to feel it - with your clear, own, quiet mind - and place your hand atop his. You take a deep, filling breath and look at him.

He is, of course, looking at you kindly, patiently, and he’s near. Not at the desk and not on the floor. He’s with you.  “I want you to look me in the eye as often as possible,” he says. “Always have.”

“Mmm, thank god.”

“How do you feel?”

“Light. Like the blankets are holding me down. But normal.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess that was the ‘depends’ part. Goddamn cow, she coulda stuck around for a few details… Any news on that?”

“Dean caught the witch who did it - Gretel - but she was arguing with the one who cursed you at the time. Uh, Sally-”

“Sally the witch?”

“Yup, she tried to use powder on him too but took a really deep breath to blow it and got herself instead.”

“Oh my god,” you begin to brighten. “What happened?”

“Dean has a dedicated assistant to manage till about 8pm tonight,” he grins.

“Ha! She got the mastery bottle. That’s brilliant!”

Sam grins with you, running his hand up and down your arm, enjoying a sweet moment. He leans a little, glancing at your lips, and you reach up to pull him close, kissing and tasting and sighing into a delicious moment that you can actually focus on without bursting into flames.

You scootch over and gently press yourself to him and his hand slides up your back, firm and wanting. When you roll backwards, still licking and lapping, he rolls with you, breathes deep and hums.

“So how much of that was stuff you usually like doing?” he wonders.

“Except for the part where I almost jumped a stranger in a parking lot, oh and when I drooled over a highway patrol officer’s crotch, all of it,” you confess.

“Shit.  Right.  Good to know,” he murmurs.

“You?”

“Yeah.  I, um.  Yeah, it was good… We can arrange a different guy to pull you over if you like,” he says suggestively.

“Fuck yes please. I’m sure I can perform some sort of infraction.”

“Well, I might catch you for speeding, but the arrest will be for the dirty talk because that,” he says wide eyed and smiling, while you’re groaning and hiding, “that was fucking spectacular.”


End file.
